


Death Is A Four Letter Word

by tb_ll57



Series: The Year Without Trowa [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Deathfic, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Endless Waltz, Reuniting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 11:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10740819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: They kiss, instead. As naturally as they used to, as urgently. They haven’t kissed in fourteen years but it’s like no time has passed, and that’s a cruel trick, a horrible trick. It’s not even hard to risk it. It’s every bit as good he remembers.





	Death Is A Four Letter Word

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in 2007 with my writing partner of the time, Marsh. It was her favourite of the several we did together.

_He’d taken Trowa skiing. Pick a place, anyplace; they’d bickered for days, each reluctant to put forward an idea. It had been Duo’s suggestion to talk feasibility. They’d walked aisle after aisle at the sports equipment store. No guns, Quatre said; no water, Trowa wanted. That just about left them with skiing._

_They’d taken thorough advantage of the lodge. Ate in every restaurant, drank a bottle of kubota manjyu sake every night, soaked naked in the hot springs and lay naked too for four entire hours of shiatsu massage. They skied aggressively in the afternoons, throwing themselves down the mogul courses on Mount Naeba, racing to the bottom, making extravagant bets, outrageous dares. They fed each other ankimo and kabocha, albacore belly and oyster kaki with their fingers, ate octopus and eel from each other’s bellies. They made love twice or three times a night, flirted shamelessly in public, hiked the snows alone with only the moon to guide them._

_He spent an appalling amount of money on those two weeks in paradise, but never once in his life regretted it._

 

**

 

There’s no rain in the colonies. No weather systems at all. It’s a world of regulated heat and controlled airflow, a world of solar panels and mirrors and vents and tanks, but they built the colonies to resemble the Earth, those long-dead engineers who in their wisdom had imagined the first colonists might find their titanium world unbearable otherwise. L4 has a logistical wonder half technology and half artistry: a river. It runs the full length of the torus on the central ring, fed by pipes and propelled by artificial whirlpools, a river with no beginning and no end. Its population of fish and algae are two centuries old, now; trees shade its banks and birds swoop over it to snatch at glittering dragonflies.

Quatre is looking at that river from his office windows when the call comes. He almost doesn’t hear the phone; it’s late and the regulators are darkening the world watt by watt. But his assistant picks it up, and then the intercom breaks his thoughts open.

‘Mr Winner,’ she says. ‘A Mr Chang calling for you.’

He’s picking up the phone before she completes the sentence. ‘Wufei,’ he greets him warmly. ‘It’s been forever.’

Wufei does not return his smile. ‘I’m sorry to call like this.’ His face is grave, wan, even, and it’s not just a trick of the satellite connection. ‘You need to call Trowa.’

‘I can.’ Something’s wrong. ‘What—‘

Wufei, being Wufei, is painfully blunt. ‘He’s ill, Quatre. Very ill.’

All senses stop. There’s no breathing, no heart-beat.

‘With what,’ he says soundlessly.

Wufei shakes his head. ‘Just call him. Please. He needs to hear from you.’

Numb. He manages a dip of his head. ‘Is he being treated?’

‘He was.’

He seizes on that. ‘He’s better?’

No. He’s dying.

 

**

 

He knocks. His hand goes on knocking, completely independent of rational thought. He knows Trowa is inside; he walks around the house three times, peering in windows, testing the back door, the basement shutters, the kitchen portico. He knocks for five minutes before he thinks of his phone. He hears the answering ring, lagging just a second or two behind the press of the button. He hears it turn off.

He unearths a garden spade from the shed in the backyard, and breaks a window.

Trowa greets him with a gun, grim-faced and angry. ‘Do you ever take ‘no’ for an answer?’

Quatre can ignore things, too, so he ignores that and throws his duffle onto the chair and steps in past the gun. He ignores the resistance and takes Trowa into his arms.

‘Ow,’ Trowa says. ‘Fuck, easy.’

‘Sorry.’ He releases immediately, but only to keep him still enough for a close examination. Bruised-looking eyes, and his hair— his thick gorgeous hair is sparse and grey. He’s dropped weight he’s never had to spare.

‘You’re panicking,’ Trowa observes. He tosses the gun to the couch.

He touches Trowa's cheek very gently. ‘Why the fuck didn't you call me?’

‘For what, Quatre? A sticky goodbye and a polite period of mourning?’

He backs away, collects himself painfully. There’s glass on the carpet from the window he broke. It seems important somehow. Everything seems important. ‘How sure are they?’

‘The diagnosis is confirmed. Okay?’ Trowa exhales. ‘You've seen me. Now go home to your kids.’

‘They're with their mother.’ He faces Trowa. ‘Go lie down. I'll bring you tea.’

‘You left them with that bitch? Go the hell home.’

Trowa leaves him alone in the room with the broken window. He broke it to get in, but looking at it now, all Quatre sees is one final chance to escape.

It’s too late. In so many ways.

He brings in the bags from the car, coming in properly through the door this time. He puts the gun away in a drawer; it isn’t even loaded. He makes quiet calls with his mobile phone. The reception is horrible. He manages to leave a message for Marina, tells her again he’s not sure how long he’ll be away, the same to his secretary, his deputy. All that while Trowa stays wherever it is he’s gone, and he thinks— he thinks— just shut up and walk away.

Before you find out you can’t do this.

Before you find out he really doesn’t want you to.

There’s wine in a wire rack on the counter, whiskey and rum by the coffee maker. But there’s tequila under the sink. It’s Trowa’s drink. It’s the only bottle that’s open. He takes two glasses from the special collection in the cupboard and brings the bottle with him to search the house.

He divines the master bedroom by virtue of all the other doors being closed. He knocks with the toe of his shoe. ‘Still speaking to me?’ he asks.

Trowa lifts his head from his hands and rests his elbows on his knees. ‘Still here?’

He puts the bottle down on the end table, then stands in front of Trowa so their knees touch. He tenderly fingers that thin grey hair, cups his neck.

‘Probably shouldn't do that, Quat.’

‘Is there pain?’ he asks quietly.

‘Only when I laugh.’ He thinks he’s being funny. Trowa has always thought he was funny. He lays his hand over Quatre's for a second, then moves it away, off his neck. But he doesn't let go. He says, ‘You shouldn't have come. I told them I didn't want this.’

‘I know. But you're wrong.’ Quatre lifts his other hand to Trowa's cheek. ‘You hate being alone.’

‘Since when?’ Trowa refuses his eyes. ‘Christ, sit down already.’

He obeys, sitting close enough to press their legs together. ‘How long did they give you?’

‘Too long.’ Trowa laughs hoarsely. ‘Not long enough. Shit. I'm trying not to sound like a self-pitying prick here, Quatre.’

‘You're entitled, if you want to.’

‘I don't.’ Trowa moves his leg away. ‘Why are you here? Really. Feeling guilty?’

‘Yes,’ he admits readily. ‘Amongst other things. Ask me another question you already know the answer to.’

‘Are we going to fuck? Once more for old time's sake?’

He assumes the answer is no. He hopes the answer is no, in a way. They are a very long time past that.

‘Even if you were up to it,’ is what he settles on saying, ‘that's not why I came.’

Trowa looks at him sidelong. ‘None of this is your fault.’

‘I know.’ Not the right answer, exactly; but it’s not the right question, either. He squeezes Trowa's hand. ‘I didn't come for you to care for me, either.’

‘I'd have preferred that, Quatre. I'm not good at this shit.’ A second passes, maybe two. He laces fingers with Quat. His eyes are so green.

The quiet occupies minute after minute. And through all of them, Quatre thinks—how many minutes are left?

‘Are you tired?’ he asks.

‘I'm tired of sleeping.’

He remembers something. He takes the card from his pocket. ‘Mira wrote you a letter. I kept promising to mail it. Never did.’

‘Oh, fuck.’ Trowa turns white in a rushing loss of colour. ‘You didn't tell them, did you?’

He regrets it instantly. ‘No. This is from weeks ago. She wanted to tell you about her new pony.’ He manages a little smile.

‘You let her have a pony?’ Trowa searches the carpet, for meaning, for composure. I can’t handle that, is what that slip reveals. I’m not ready. Quatre swallows on a throat that wants to close up tight. ‘She's going to break her neck.’

‘She's like you,’ he mumbles inanely. ‘Natural athlete.’

Trowa finds a smile down there, and turns it up for show. ‘You have a nice family, Quat. I'm glad. It's what you always wanted.’

That's both kind and hurtful. He can’t return the smile, quite. ‘Yes,’ he agrees quietly.

‘C'mere.’ He pulls Quatre closer. ‘Stop looking like your best friend just died.’

He holds his breath through that not to cry. He holds Trowa, too. Carefully. His arms tighten without his permission.

‘This isn't going to be okay if you keep doing that, baby,’ Trowa whispers.

They kiss, instead. As naturally as they used to, as urgently. They haven’t kissed in fourteen years but it’s like no time has passed, and that’s a cruel trick, a horrible trick. It’s not even hard to risk it. It’s every bit as good he remembers.

Trowa’s cheek rests against his. ‘You taste good.’

‘I had time to brush my teeth on the layover.’

He wins a laugh for that. ‘I thought you were going to make me some tea.’

Trowa hates tea. Where'd he put the bottle? He reaches for it. ‘Tea's for keeping people healthy.’ He feels the tremble when he breathes. ‘Might as well forget it and indulge yourself.’ He manages to keep a level look.

Trowa takes the bottle, traces the label as if he’s never read it before. ‘You don't drink, Quatre.’

‘I think Allah will forgive me.’

Fists clench around the bottle neck. ‘I don't have time for this. Okay? Take me somewhere.’

He's not certain about this. But there’s nothing to do but agree. ‘All right,’ he says.

 

**

 

_Everyone was there for the groom’s procession. Where his uncle found a horse, Quatre didn’t know and there was never time to ask, but it staggered along like it was drunk. Or drugged. Duo danced along beside him on foot, and really was drunk, teasing all of Quatre’s cousins with dirty jokes and flirting with two at a time, doe-eyed boys who didn’t seem to know what to do about it. They all but carried Quatre into the shamiana tent, a massive thing that could and probably did hold a thousand people that day. There were men with cameras everywhere, some of them family, some of them official news or print, flashes going off every other second until he thought he saw stars. The drums were like thunder, rhythmic and rolling into a roar. Marina’s eldest brother waited for him in the middle of the tent on the little wooden platform. They shared a glass of sweet sharbet, and exchanged fat envelopes of printed money, and everyone cheered raucously. It was the third day of the wedding._

_‘She's a dyke,’ he overheard Lucy Noin telling Duo. ‘She'll break his heart.’_

_‘Yeah, but imagine the possibilities.’ Duo was still eyeing the cousins. ‘Oh,’ he said then. ‘Well, I guess two girls in bed doesn't do much for Quatre.’_

_‘Not unless one of them has a dick, no.’_

_‘Dude, you know that's why I broke up with Hilde.’_

_They strung a delicate white silk curtain between Marina and him for the marriage ceremony. She was swathed in veils, diaphanous indigo blue, her dark hair flecked with gold and pearls. He stared at her hands from the corner of his eyes while the imam read a long passage from the Qur’an about the obligations between man and wife. Her fingers were dark with henna swirls, peeking modestly from the sleeves of her ivory bridal sharara. He could smell the turmeric and sandalwood like perfume._

_‘Are you happy in this marriage?’ the priest asked Marina. ‘Are you willing to wed this man?’_

_‘I am,’ Marina answered, clear as day._

_He retired to change his suit after the first meal; he’d sweated it clear through in the heat of the huge crowd. He stood naked in the slight breeze from a lone electric fan, eyes closed._

_Then Trowa was there, silent as the air itself, helping him into the knee-length coat and straightening his tie. Perspiration glittered at Trowa’s hairline, darkened the neck of his shirt. He kissed Quatre— not on the mouth, when Quatre flinched back, but on each cheek. His breath smelled like wine._

_'Relax,’ he said heavily. ‘I know the rules.’_

_It had been cruel, asking him to come. Part of him honestly wished Trowa had turned him down flat._

_‘I wish I could wish you happy.’_

_He wished that, too._

_The imam leaned Quatre’s forehead against Marina’s and covered their heads with a scarf. Her mother pressed a mirror into their hands, the first time they were allowed to see each other— not really, of course. They’d met socially a dozen times, and he knew her as a woman who liked sleek business suits, fashionable short curls, expensive jewellery. But she looked beautiful in her wedding finery, her eyes painted dusky grey, her lips dark. Their eyes met, reflected back._

_When he tilted the mirror, he caught a shadow over her shoulder. He thought it might have been Trowa, but he was never sure._

 

**

 

They pack in a rush. Quatre searches the bath for shampoo and soap, for clean towels. There is no medication in the cabinet over the sink, or in the drawer under it, though he finds written prescriptions. All of them are unfilled, and all of them are the same date. Two weeks ago, nearly to the day. Trowa’s given up.

‘I’ll drive,’ he tells Trowa at the door.

‘I can still get around on my own, Quatre.’

‘Enjoy the scenery,’ he suggests, with a lightness he doesn’t feel. They can maintain a kind of holiday cheer if they try hard enough. Throw everything into a car and just drive into the sunset. It works in films. Films that never show the ending, just the credits.

He wants to drive so he doesn't have the ability to get lost in his thoughts.

Trowa settles into the passenger seat without further argument. He fiddles with all the controls on his side, with the AC, but doesn’t bother with the safety belt. ‘Put the top down,’ he says.

Quatre obeys. It folds back mechanically. It’s a bright day, with a crisp edge of chill. The sun highlights everything wrong in Trowa’s face, but Trowa closes his eyes and lifts his head to it, and the tension in him eases out in slow, measured exhales.

He backs out of the drive and onto the street. The highway is north, he’s fairly sure. Trowa offers no directions. He punches their location into the GPS, and it supplies an area map.

‘Just drive,’ Trowa says. ‘I don’t care where. Talk to me.’

‘I don't have a lot of stuff these days.’ His lips are dry. The pedal jerks under his foot, and he tries to concentrate on a smooth ride. ‘The twins are starting school this fall. They're excited.’

‘How old are they now?’

Trowa knows how old. He was there for the last birthday party.

But Quatre plays along. ‘Six, and six and three minutes.’

Trowa laughs. It’s insane to believe it, even for an instant, but he wants so badly to hope that it has more energy than even minutes ago, that it’s brighter, stronger. ‘You're the only one of us that took the big leap.’

‘It wasn't a leap.’ Have to tread carefully on that. It’s too close to what tore them apart, fourteen years ago. But it’s old news, anyway. They’re covering old ground, remembering together. He swallows. ‘It was always going to be part of my life. It was piloting that was a leap.’

‘Yeah.’ Wind in his thin hair. A little colour in his face. Trowa looks at him. ‘Do you miss it?’

‘Not most days.’ Oh, that old look. ‘Sometimes, desperately.’

‘What part?’

Twenty questions? But he answers. ‘I guess the easy answer is the freedom.’

‘That's funny,’ Trowa says.

‘I miss the significance.’ He glances at Trowa. ‘That's the worst answer.’

A hand lingers near his on the shift. ‘I never once felt free in the rebellion.’

‘It was different for all of us.’

‘Yeah.’ Fingers creep over his and Trowa grips. ‘I miss blowing the snot out of things.’ He laughs.

Insane to believe it. But hasn’t the world gone just a little insane?

Trowa turns his hand up and grips it. ‘Where we headed, Quat? Kitty-Quat.’

That makes Quatre laugh, it startles him so much. ‘I can’t believe that.’

‘Do you remember?’

They’d been in bed. Sometimes it seemed they’d spent half their teenaged years in bed together. Sharing a bottle of cheap red wine, acidic enough to burn a hole in the sheets, too warm from their body heat. Quatre had never been much of a drinker, and halfway through the bottle he’d lost all coordination. He’d been aiming for Trowa’s mouth and spilled, but it was a problem easily solved; he’d licked it from Trowa’s chest and belly. Kitty-Quat, Trowa had said, breathless. Kitty-Quat comes out to play.

‘We could go to the beach if you wanted.’ It’s the first thing that comes to mind. ‘Or there's the parks. It's off-season. The lodges would be empty.’

‘The beach,’ Trowa says. He lays his head on the rest and props his foot on the dash. ‘The beach would be good. Stick our toes in the sand. Cold beers.’

He types ‘beach’ into the GPS. There’s a half dozen in the area if they drive an hour in either direction. He picks one at random first, before logistics strike like lightning and there’s suddenly a hundred factors to think about—privacy, motels— hospitals.

‘You got quiet.’ Trowa waggles his hand. ‘Where do you want to go? It's your day too.’

He clears his throat. ‘I like the beach.’ He chooses Pritchard Island Beach. It’s quiet, a little more remote. He accidentally keys directions from, not directions to, and has to backtrack through the system.

Trowa lays his hand on Quatre’s thigh. ‘Try not to look so fucking hunted, okay?’

‘Yes.’ He covers Trowa’s hand, this time, laces their fingers. Glad there’s not traffic yet. ‘We'll stop at a store. What do you want to eat?’

Trowa shrugs. ‘I couldn't care less.’ There’s a pause, weighty, and Quatre dreads it. He’s right to. ‘Are you still mad at me?’ Trowa asks then.

Quatre says immediately, ‘I was never angry with you.’

‘Bullshit. You were.’

‘I was never angry with you.’ He looks away from the road long enough to meet Trowa’s eyes. ‘I was angry with the choice I had to make.’

‘Had to make?’ Trowa repeats, something sharp and cutting in his stare.

‘Between you and my family.’

‘You didn't have to make that choice, Quat. You didn't.’ But he looks away first, shrugs like he doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t, after all this time. ‘At least it worked out for you.’

There’s silence, flat silence. Trowa sits with his hands in loose fists on his thighs. Quatre aims a vent at his hands on the wheel. His palms are damp.

‘I did.’ He barely hears himself say it. ‘I'm sorry for it. It's not some obsolete cultural throwback for me.’

‘I don't want to argue about it.’

‘All right.’

A tic in Trowa’s jaw flexes.

‘It never meant I didn't love you.’

‘Like hell,’ Trowa retorts harshly. ‘Or maybe you just loved your conventions and the expectations they had on you more. Either way, it's too late to matter.’

He concentrates on just driving. It's an old argument anyway. An ugly old argument.

‘I have a will. I probably should tell you.’

Trowa doesn’t look at him while he says it. There was a newspaper on the floor. Trowa has it open in his lap, ignoring the wind flapping the pages.

He holds a hand to the vent to dry it. ‘I'll take care of it, if you want.’

‘I made you executor, so I guess that's a good thing.’ Trowa folds the paper in half horizontally. ‘I left it all to your kids. Don't let them buy anything stupid with it, okay? No ponies or motorcycles or... fuck. You know.’

‘School uniforms and books all the way.’

Trowa makes a face at him. They’re done arguing. Just ignore it, that’s always done them well, hasn’t it? ‘I said nothing stupid,’ Trowa complains.

Quatre cracks a smile. ‘We'll figure something out. Maybe a trip,’ he proposes tentatively, as the idea strikes him. ‘They're at a good age for discovering the world.’

‘Good,’ Trowa agrees immediately. ‘That's good. Take them to Australia. I always wanted to go there.’

‘Australia?’ It’s completely random. But it grows on him. ‘Jared will like it. He'll want a kangaroo.’

‘Kinda hard to fit one of those in a suitcase.’

‘That's a good excuse. I'll remember it.’

Trowa laughs. He stuffs the paper into the glove box. ‘Are you a good father?’

He leans back in the seat at that. That’s not asked to sting— at least, he doesn’t think so— he thinks it’s just— Trowa. Years too late to be a part of that side of Quatre’s life, but trying. And he wants it, too, suddenly, after years of being careful what they say to each other, after a decade and a half of pretending he didn’t leave, didn’t marry, didn’t grow a family away on L4. How much can they cram in? How long have they got to do it?

‘I try to be,’ he says. ‘And I try to remember that trying isn't enough.’

Trowa’s fingers come to his nape and caress. ‘I hope you try to remember you're not like your dad.’

‘There might have been a point when my dad wasn't like my dad.’

‘You won't go there.’

‘Won't I?’ Strokes of Trowa’s thumb raise shivers up his spine. ‘He married someone he didn't love and got left with a child he didn't understand, couldn't connect with. It terrifies me. How simple it would be to fall into that well and never be able to climb out again.’

‘That's exactly why you won't.’ Trowa says it so firmly, dismissing all his doubt, as if they’ve had this conversation a million times, not never. ‘You won't, Quatre.’

There’s a sign for the highway, finally. ‘Do you want a hotel at the beach? Or one of those bungalow things. A hut with a fan and wood floors.’ There might be something like that.

Trowa catches a handful of his hair and releases it. ‘That sounds great,’ he agrees simply.

‘Are you tired?’ He seems tired. People are tired when they’re in this state. Aren’t they? There’s never been death in his life that lingered and faded. Never been a death he hasn’t caused, come to that.

‘I don't want to sleep.’

‘We can do anything you like.’

He can almost hear what Trowa’s thinking. He wants to play touch football on the beach. He wants to work on his tan under the sun. He wants to screw. It’s been so long. But all he says is, ‘Okay.’

‘All of it,’ Quatre promises abruptly.

‘That'd be good.’ Trowa taps the shift. ‘Can you stop the car?’

It’s an honest mistake. He panics. He cuts across the right-hand lane and nearly runs a suburban off the road doing it, throws on the brake. It takes him a minute to realise Trowa’s laughing at him. ‘Calm down!’ Trowa repeats. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘You lousy asshole,’ he says, completely chagrined. ‘I thought you were going to— I don’t know— explode, or puke, or something—‘

Trowa’s knuckles brush his cheek. He gives Quatre time to pull away. Time Quatre doesn’t use. It starts desperate, Trowa’s mouth pressing hard to his, his teeth pulling at Quatre’s lips. He tastes like death.

It starts rough, but it gentles. One of them gentles it, he doesn’t know which of them. And from gentle it goes to a hand down Quatre’s trousers, cupping him close. They’re in the middle of a neighbourhood— well, on the side of a public street, at least, cars passing them by more than slow enough to get an eyeful. But does it really matter?

‘That was nice.’ Trowa licks reddened lips as he eases away. He clenches his hand as he removes it from Quatre’s pants. ‘You can drive again.’

He catches Trowa by the wrist. ‘Let’s fool around in the back seat for a while.’

Trowa twists free. ‘Tabs will have a field day if anyone gets a picture.’

‘I'll—‘ He was going to say 'live with it'. ‘Deal with it. Let's make out.’

‘Not here.’ Trowa goes sullen so quickly Quatre’s left dizzy. ‘Not because you think it's our last chance.’

‘Beach, then,’ he says, and puts the car back in gear.

 

**

 

_He came to lying on bare tile in the middle of a hall filled with groaning men. Everything smelled like blood and burned flesh. There was someone sobbing nearby, someone calling for help. There was a needle in his arm, hastily taped to his skin, banana bags of plasma and morphine tacked to the wall above his head, nearly empty. There was pain. He found bandages on his chest, when he looked. When he pressed his hand to his wound, his fingers came away dripping wet._

_He was there for hours, and no-one ever came. The one who was calling for help eventually went weak, and then quiet. There was a grey-haired man with a horrible gash across his face lying next to Quatre; he might have been dead before Quatre woke. He had an OZ uniform. There was a colonist, a face Quatre recognised from The Peacemillion. He crawled to an emergency kit that had been left by the door. ‘It’s empty,’ Quatre heard him say. ‘It’s empty.’ Battered disbelief. The colonist lay on his stomach there, mumbling to himself. He left a smear on the tile behind him._

_The morphine ran out. Without it, the pain in his torso was worse, progressively worse. He could breathe unobstructed, which meant his lungs were all right, but he was shaking so much he couldn’t use his arms, and he was ferociously cold, as if he’d stood unprotected in Space. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and coppery. He held his breath, he tried to find the pulse and wave of the agony, live in the seconds between the throbs that weren’t so terrifyingly bad. He blacked out, airless, nauseous. Woke twice more._

_The third time he woke he was moving. No, being carried, and felt like he was on the edge of a huge pit, a black hole sucking him down, except for the arms that held him up._

_There was blood in his mouth. He had to swallow it to speak. ‘Trowa.’_

_A blurry head tilted down to him. There were shadowy figures on either side of him, and he had a terrified thought about Duo’s angels of death._

_‘You disappeared,’ Trowa told him._

_‘I woke up.’ It was suddenly imperative he tell Trowa everything. He couldn’t move the way Trowa’s holding him, cradling him, but awake he could feel every jarring step like an earthquake. ‘I woke up here and there was no-one I knew. There's dead men in here and I thought they put me here because I was going to die too.’_

_‘Don't be stupid,’ Trowa said, and clutched him close. ‘You're not going to die. I'll find you a doctor.’_

_‘Where did you go? Why weren’t you there?’_

_‘You were lost,’ Trowa repeated. They passed through a portal and into the glare of bright overhead lights, into a cave full of noise and shouting. ‘No-one remembered seeing a blond kid. We’ve been searching for hours— Sally!’_

_She found a bed for them— a private room. Heero was already there, and two colonists guarding the door with drawn weapons. Trowa started to put Quatre down on the empty bed, but stopped fast, hitching Quatre back up, jolting him so hard he let a cry escape his gritted jaws._

_‘Sorry,’ Trowa apologised. His voice was frayed. ‘The bedding isn’t clean.’_

_Sally was no better, exhausted, aggrieved. ‘There is no clean bedding, Trowa. We barely have clean bandages.’_

_‘I'll find you some. Just… take care of him.’_

_Duo was there, sitting with Heero. He stood and said quietly, ‘I'll find some.’_

_Rashid was there, squeezed into an increasingly crowded room. He offered to take Quatre, just for a moment, so Trowa could sit. Trowa refused. He hitched Quatre up in his arms again, and Quatre squeezed his eyes shut on sharp pang._

_Heero swung his legs off his bed. His naked chest and arms were bruised purple and black, swelling where the harness had strapped him down. ‘He all right?’_

_Trowa’s voice rumbled against Quatre’s cheek. ‘I don't know.’_

_‘Maxwell’s not wounded. Neither is Chang.’ Heero caught Quatre’s eyes. They stared at each other. ‘Khushrenada is dead. I think... that Merquise is, too.’ Informative. Flat, quiet voice. ‘No-one has seen Noin. What happened to him?’_

_‘Catalonia happened to him.’_

_Heero blinked. Quatre blinked, and shut his eyes. So cold._

_‘She had a suit?’_

_Trowa laughed bitterly. ‘They duelled.’_

_‘Why did they do that?’_

_‘You know how he is. He thought he could save her.’_

_Duo was back. He had a bundle of sheeting. ‘Don't ask where it came from,’ he said. He spread it on the bed quickly. Trowa was not smooth setting Quatre down, and Rashid tried to soften his landing, pillowing his head with a broad hand._

_‘Where's the fucking doctor?’ Trowa said._

_‘They're busy,’ Duo answered shortly. ‘There's a lot of people dying out there.’_

_‘And one dying here.’_

_Duo shoved Trowa, not lightly. He hit the bed, and Rashid steadied Quatre, stroking at his hair. ‘What if he can hear you?’ Duo snarled. ‘Act like you've got a head on your shoulders.’_

_Trowa pushed back, and this time it was Heero that got hit. ‘He's bleeding, damn it,’ Trowa snapped. ‘I want a doctor.’_

_‘Go fuckin' find one.’_

_Rashid stroked Quatre’s hair, and whispered his name. ‘Quatre?’_

_Everything was blurry and too bright. ‘I can’t feel my legs,’ Quatre said, and couldn’t properly hear himself. He was falling into the pit._

_‘It's shock,’ Trowa said. ‘It's got to be.’ Then, relieved, ‘You a doctor?’_

_A new shape, bending down over Quatre, out-of-focus, dark. You don’t see angels, Duo had said. But you feel them there._

_Tugs at the IV in his arm. New bags._

_‘I need paper,’ Quatre said, as clearly as he could through his chattering teeth. Trowa supplied it. A little pad of real paper. Quatre reached for it, but got tangled in his lines, and the doctor forced his arms down. ‘Write for me.’_

_‘I’m ready.’ Trowa crouched on the floor by Quatre’s head._

_The doctor injected him, a tiny prick in his elbow. ‘You've got sixty seconds.’_

_Quatre swallowed blood. ‘Everything I've got. For the four of you. They'll fight you in court but the doctor's a witness.’_

_Trowa stood. ‘You're not going to die, stupid.’_

_Ice in his arm, spreading over his chest. Even the light blurred._

_‘I'm not writing your will, because you're not going to fucking die.’_

_Duo pressed his hand. ‘We've got it, Quat.’_

_Trowa wasn’t having it. ‘Say it, Quat.’_

_Duo helped him. Held the notepad still, and the pen in Quatre’s fingers. He scrawled as best he could. Signed it._

_‘If you say it, it's real, Quatre.’ Trowa wasn’t backing down._

_‘He's out.’ Duo put Quatre’s hand back. Quatre closed his eyes, couldn’t open them any more. Was floating gently down the gravity well. It wasn’t half as scary as he’d thought it would be. Their voices drifted after him, far away._

_‘You could have agreed with me, asshole. He needed to hear it.’_

_‘No! He needed to know he'd got everything nailed down!’_

_‘He doesn't need a will if he's not going to die.’_

_Pressure on his chest, where he’d been stabbed. He felt it, but it didn’t hurt, not now._

_‘Believing you're not gonna die doesn't save you if it's your time. At least this way he knows he did the last thing he wanted for you.’_

_‘I don't want his fucking stuff.’_

_‘So don't take it. I don't give a damn.’ A door slammed._

_‘Either assist me or get out.’ The doctor. Pressure on his chest, and that was the last thing Quatre knew._

 

**

 

‘There's a grocery up the road,’ he reports. ‘And a liquor store.’

‘Cool.’ He thinks Trowa might have dozed while he was inside. There’s dark circles under his eyes. Quatre drops the nets and brochures into his lap. Trowa rubs a corner of the mesh between his fingers. ‘You haven't had a vacation in a while.’

‘Ah, several years, I think.’

‘Loveless marriage and divorce tends to spoil them?’

It’s just a little cooler at the beach, with the wind from the lake. Edge of season. With the top down, the car is very pleasant. Trowa stays in it while Quatre goes in the park office to ask about the rentals. Quatre leaves him staring at the water, just visible between windows and trees.

He rents a bungalow for a week, hoping it’s a conservative figure. All open air, the checkout tells him, no windows, just screens. Futon on the lanai. She gives him mosquito nets, promises to turn on the water for the outdoor shower, gives him a key for the canoe dock and lifejackets. Supplies a laminated map, and a copy of the rental agreement, and a complimentary basket of biscuits and fruit.

The kids would have loved it. The only beach they’ve ever seen is the public park by the L4 river. He has the sinking feeling he’ll never want to take them here again.

He hadn’t asked many— any— questions about the rental. It’s kind of a dump, showing its age. The lock on the front door is new, and he has to fight with the key to open it. It’s one big room, waist-high partition walls marking off kitchenette, dining area, bedroom. King-size bed covered in a faded quilt. There’s a cat on the bed. It runs when they come in with their bags.

Trowa grins. ‘Boy, she really did take you for a load.’

‘The renter?’ He sets his duffle by the bed. ‘Or you mean Marina?’

‘You should have told me you couldn’t afford a real cabin.’ But it’s only teasing. Trowa drops his bag on the bed. He’s pleased, even if he won’t say it. They had their days in fancy hotels and pricy private rooms. But before that, they had good times, great times, in places just like this.

He opens doors at random, finds the toilet, the hot water boiler, and finally a closet full of odds and bobs. ‘There's some sports things.’ He rolls a football onto the floor and nudges it toward Trowa.

Trowa expertly flips it from the floor and into his hands. He bounces it from knee to knee, still agile. He smiles. ‘This will do. Fuck unpacking. Let's go outside.’

‘Absolutely.’ He strips his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. The backdoor fastens only with a bolt, but it lets them right out onto the sand, and from there it’s only a dozen yards to the water.

Trowa pulls off his tee shirt and kicks his boots and socks to the sand. He's thin. Thinner. There’s blue dot tattoos for radiation therapy on his chest. Quatre catches him, passing by, touches them. Runs his fingers over Trowa’s ribs, the echo of old touches.

Trowa’s smile fades. ‘Maybe we can pretend for a couple of days.’

‘It doesn't have to be pretend,’ Quatre says.

‘Sure, Quat.’

‘We've got nothing here but time. Nothing else but us, and time.’ He poses it quietly, and in all seriousness.

‘Time. Yeah.’ He cups Quatre’s face. He kisses Quatre. Unhurried. Less desperate, than before.

Quatre strokes the sharp bones of Trowa’s back. But he's the one who steps back first. ‘Let's play while we still have the light.’

Trowa lets him skinch away, and nods. ‘Yeah,’ he agrees. His expression is easy, but something is simmering under it.

They play for almost two hours. Pulling silly pranks, taking nutty headers into the sand when they miss a kick. They laugh together. They haven’t done that in a long, long time. It feels pretty amazing.

When at last Trowa starts to get a pale line around his lips, and the sun is setting anyway, Quatre punts the football back toward the bungalow and initiates a rickety lawn chair. He’s sweating, which he hasn’t done outside a gym in a decade or so. Trowa sits in the sand at his feet, facing the water.

‘I should get us some food before the stores close,’ Quatre says at last.

‘Maybe I'll stay here.’

He accepts it. ‘Any special requests?’

Trowa shakes his head. ‘Beer.’

‘Okay.’ He doesn’t stop his hand from reaching for the soft hair on the back of Trowa’s neck. He can’t remember the last time he did that. ‘Be right back.’

The grocery is within walking distance, it turns out, but since he has the car he makes a go at filling it. It’s mostly snacks and fresh fish. He buys tinned soup and a loaf of white bread, tuna and swordfish, anything that will stand up to a grill. He buys two cases of local brew brown ale at the liquor stand next door and two bottles of off-the-shelf sparkling wine.

He’s back within twenty minutes, but the bungalow is dark in the twilight, silent. When he enters by the back, Trowa is asleep on the bed. He puts up the beer and food as quietly as he can, and hangs the netting from the hooks over the bed, careful not to disturb so much as a breath. It’s trickier covering Trowa with the quilt, but Trowa only stirs, not wakes. He sits to watch him sleep, stroking his knee with feather-light caresses.

When it’s dark enough that he can’t see anymore, he opens his bag. His hands are shaking. He smoothes the cover of the Qur’an, and opens it in his lap. He can’t read the words, but he knows them by heart.

‘Do you not see that GOD has committed in your service everything on Earth?’ he whispers. ‘The ships run in the ocean by his command. He prevents the heavenly bodies from crashing onto the Earth, except in accordance of his commands. GOD is most kind towards the people, most merciful. He is the one who granted you life, then He puts you to death, then He brings you back to life.’

When his voice is getting scratchy, he halts his recitation. He says, ‘I can't believe you were a spy. I knew the second you woke up.’

Trowa opens one eye. Moonlight gleams white on it. ‘You could have humoured me.’

He closes the Qur’an and sets it on his bag beside the bed. He stretches out next to Trowa and fits his hand under the quilt. Trowa’s skin is cold, a bit. It’s gone chilly.

Trowa pulls him closer, silent. Tangles his legs with Quatre's. He's stripped down to his boxers. Not all of him is cold.

Quatre's willing. He explores with one hand, eyes half-closed; then open to look up at him. Trowa hasn't looked away from him, not for a second. He presses Quatre onto his back and rolls to cover him. He settles slowly, inch by inch, between Quatre’s legs. His lips travel Quatre’s cheekbones, his jaw.

It's like they never broke up. Like no time has passed. He's willing it so.

They pause for Quatre to squirm out of his shirt. Trowa helps him shed it. ‘I can't contaminate you.’

It’s not even crossed his mind. It’s not even physically possible. But he understands, vaguely at least, how Trowa might need to say it. He answers by drawing Trowa back to his lips, rubbing his tongue deep in Trowa’s mouth. Trowa grinds against him. It’s slow. Sweet. Maybe they’ve never been together like this before; it feels different from anything he remembers. Maybe they’re just finally grown up. Maybe there is something about knowing the time limit. Too long, and not long enough. Trowa leans away to take off his boxers, then unbelts Quatre’s trousers and pulls them down. His fingertips skim Quatre’s belly, then the head of his cock. It's a tease. He knows Quatre hasn't been touched in at least as long as he has.

He arches his neck when Trowa licks him. He helps push his trousers down and off. ‘I bought some things.’

‘Yeah?’ Trowa asks hoarsely. He makes a loose fist around Quatre, a tender touch. ‘Butt plugs and ball gags?’

‘Don't be stupid.’ He put them on the battered bedside table. He points, and Trowa sits up to get it. Lube— the grocery knew its customer base. The champagne. Strawberries. Trowa rattles the carton at him.

‘You always were a romantic.’ But he smiles.

He props their limp pillows by the headboard and motions Trowa to lay back. The bed creaks as they exchange positions, and somewhere outside, a streetlamp comes on, casting just a little golden glow against the moonlight. He pulls the cork out of the bottle. It’s cheap wine; it bubbles over, spills on his hands, on Trowa’s naked chest. They both ignore it. Quatre swigs from the bottle and passes it to Trowa.

Trowa swallows three times before the bottle lowers. ‘Slob,’ he says. ‘Kiss me.’

He does. Before he leans away, Trowa’s fingers catch him. He feeds Quatre a strawberry. Quatre licks his fingertips around the fruit, and props himself on an elbow to chew. ‘You want one?’

‘Sure.’

He teases Trowa with the tip of the fruit, makes him sit up for it. Trowa finally snatches it. He bites at Quatre, and they laugh. Quatre pounces him, and they nip and scratch at each other, giggling like teenagers, wrestling for tops, searching for all the ticklish spots they can remember, finding new ones. Trowa’s the one who brings it back, deep, considering kisses, long trailing palms down his back, his thigh, to the crook of his knee.

‘Get the lube,’ he says.

It's some girly tube of chocolate-flavoured stuff. Quatre squeezes some out and licks his finger experimentally, then swipes Trowa's lower lip with it.

Trowa tastes it and laughs. ‘No tossed salads today, thanks. Gimme the high, hard one, babe.’

Quatre chuckles. ‘You were never imaginative about sex.’ But he slips his hand down between them, the lube a slippery guide.

Trowa groans. Startling sound. Strangely real. ‘I just know what I like.’

He uses just one finger, and softens it with a kiss. ‘Givin’ you some chocolate love.’ But he can't stay serious through saying it, and he laughs against Trowa's mouth. Trowa’s laughing too. It’s glorious. He nuzzles Quatre, fumbling down Quatre’s stomach to be sure he’s hard. His fingers circle and stroke.

Yes. He squirts the chocolube into Trowa's palm. ‘Get me ready?’

‘Sure, baby.’ He smoothes it onto Quatre so gently, so carefully. Quatre sits back to watch him in faint outline. It feels so good— not just sexual, but good. They were always so good together.

‘I never stopped wanting you, Quatre.’

He curves a hand down Trowa's cheek. ‘That was never our problem.’

‘Shh. Don't talk.’

They kiss again. He guides himself into Trowa, while Trowa’s legs tighten around his hips, pull him in. He’s wary at first, afraid of his weight on Trowa’s body, afraid of too much force, feeling his way toward what Trowa can handle now. If it feels anything but good, Trowa’s hiding it. But it does. Feel good.

‘Quatre.’ Very quietly, against his neck. Trowa leaves the briefest imprint of his teeth there, then across Quatre's collarbone, the hollow of his throat. Trowa’s heart is racing, thumping hard between them.

He just keeps it slow and tender, a hand on Trowa's cock, rubbing slowly. He moves, rocks, like the waves on the shore outside, whispering on the sand.

Trowa's head falls back against the pillows. His eyes drift shut. His fingers trip lightly down Quat's spine. He says, ‘Not gonna last, babe.’

He buries the rasp of his throat in Trowa’s mouth. ‘You want me to go faster?’

‘Yeah.’ His hands dig into Quatre's hips. He grinds. Quatre shifts for balance and speeds his pace. Trowa’s breaths come rapidly, with fitful tosses of his head.

‘Fuck.’ Softly, too gently for that word. ‘Now. Okay?’

He leans down to kiss him harder than before. His arms are shaking from holding himself up, the rest of him is shaking, too. He snaps his hips three— four- then deep and stops and shudders all over. Trowa arches up. Hot fluid seeps between their bodies. He holds like that for a second, taut under Quatre, before slumping back against the mattress.

He waits in sleepy lassitude for Trowa to move first. When the uncomfortable shifting starts, he pulls out and drops to the sheets beside him. He drapes his arm over Trowa’s chest, though, refusing to give up contact entirely.

‘Fuuuuck,’ Trowa says.

He smudges the come on Trowa's stomach into the chocolube. It smells unappetising, now, and tastes worse. He makes a face and wishes he’d thought of bringing a flannel to the bed for cleaning up. ‘I don't think chocolate sperm's going to hit the market any time soon.’

‘I fucking hope not.’ He sighs. ‘Cold. Pull the blanket up.’

He sits up to fetch it. Their bags are close enough to rifle if he leans way over the edge, and he does find a small towel. He brings the quilt with him after that, scattering their clothes to floor as he pulls it up. He settles with Trowa spooned, back to his chest, tucks them in securely. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Shagged out.’ Trowa’s voice is fainter. ‘It's good. You?’

‘Yeah.’ He wants to say that he’s glad. But he’s not. It’s too bittersweet for happiness. He wants to feel that there’s— some blessing, in this, that it’s just Trowa’s fated time. When they were laughing he could think that in some unnoticed recess of his mind, but now, he can’t think it now, can’t feel it here, this moment that should be so wonderful.

‘Probably going to sleep now. Sorry.’

He swallows dryly. ‘It's all right. I'm right here.’

‘Thanks for coming, Quatre.’

 

**

 

_Salih came to the point quickly. ‘How much,’ he said quietly, ‘will it take?’_

_Trowa was furious, even flushed. He paced the boardroom restlessly, but at that, he faced Quatre’s uncle. ‘You don’t waste time, do you?’ he demanded bitterly._

_‘We all know why we’re here.’ Salih adjusted the skirt of his galabiyya as he sat back. He did not sit at the head of the table— that was Quatre’s right. Birthright. But he sat at the right hand, where he’d sat when it was Quatre’s father who occupied that post, and there was no expression on his bearded face but a certain sympathy in the deep lines of his eyes. ‘I ask you this not to insult you. I ask you so you will understand the gravity of this situation.’_

_Trowa’s lower lip was mangled by angry teeth. His fists hung at his sides, white-knuckled._

_‘All right,’ he said flatly. He ripped one of the leather chairs back from the huge oak table. It creaked when he dropped into it. ‘All right,’ he repeated. ‘You want to know what it’ll take? It'll take Quatre asking me to go away.’_

_‘You really want to put him through that?’ Salih said gravely._

_‘It's a helluva lot easier to take then the knowledge his family bought me off.’ Trowa leaned aggressively toward the old man. ‘Do you think he'd appreciate knowing both sides betrayed him?’_

_‘Better to suffer a betrayal than to be the betrayer. He won't do that to our family.’_

_‘But he'll regret it for the rest of his life.’_

_‘Men can live with regrets.’_

_‘Men can live with a lot of things.’_

_Salih twitched the fold of his galabiyya again and turned his eyes to the wall. ‘Quatre will marry a suitable woman and have sons. It's the way it has always been for us. He's been given extraordinary leeway because he is an extraordinary young man, but it will happen.’_

_‘Yeah,’ Trowa said. ‘I'm sure he will. Because he'll always put his family's wishes ahead of his own. Won’t you, Quat?’_

_Quatre turned from the window. Trowa had his back to Quatre, and he didn’t face him, saying that. But Salih met Quatre’s eyes._

_Quatre inhaled slowly. He felt weak-kneed; crushed. Cold._

_'They want me to come back to L4.' He had to pause to clear his throat. 'Take over the business. I've been letting it rest on their shoulders. It's not fair of me to do that.'_

_‘They found you a bride,’ Trowa said. Still he didn’t turn. ‘Didn't they?’_

_Salih pursed his lips._

_‘Her name is Marina,’ Quatre said. ‘Her father has agreed to the match. I— I haven’t decided.’_

_Trowa’s shoulders straightened. ‘Is she hot?’ he asked casually. ‘Or just loaded.’_

_Quatre occupied himself with a loose button on his cuff. He didn’t answer what hadn’t been a real question. He knew what Trowa was doing. Knew there would be a time when they’d both be glad Trowa had acted to protect himself, even if it meant lashing out._

_‘I resent having to be gracious about this.’_

_‘I'm sorry.’_

_‘Me too, Quatre.’ Trowa snorted softly. ‘Right. Got it. Good luck with that.’_

_'This isn’t what I wanted, Trowa.’ His uncle looked away, then, left him standing alone in the corner without even that silent support._

_Trowa came to his feet. He faced Quatre. ‘Marry me then.’_

_He was shocked. 'I can't.'_

_‘Why not, if we're forever?’_

_‘Mr Barton,’ Salih tried to interrupt._

_‘Shut up,’ Trowa snapped. ‘I want to hear it from him.’_

_'I-- we're— we can’t marry, Trowa,’ he said weakly._

_‘No? People do it when they're in love. When they mean to stay together.’_

_He shook his head minutely, the limit of his physical wherewithal. 'Not men.'_

_Trowa stared at him for a long time, then. Salih would not look at them. Quatre said nothing else, not even to defend himself against what must be coming._

_‘Hard to keep the romance alive when there’s fifty hide-bound traditionalists hammering you with religion and superstition,’ Trowa said finally. He laughed on a harsh exhale. ‘Fifty-one, counting you.’_

_He couldn’t swallow, though he tried. ‘I’m sorry.’_

_‘Admit it. Just admit it to my face. You're not just afraid of disappointing them again. You want it. The whole package, the wife, the kids, the business.’_

_He’d been so emotionally battered by his family for so long he couldn’t even muster outrage for that. They were going to argue, and they’d needed to have this argument, even if they ought to have had it a thousand times before Quatre was walking out the door._

_So he kept his head up and he gave that the acknowledgement it deserved. ‘It's what I was born for,’ he said. ‘That has meaning.’_

_‘We had meaning.’ Trowa’s hands were clenched into fists. He only hit with his words, though. ‘Hope this will have more.’_

_‘I'm not just one man. I'm my family. If I were just one man, it would be you. It would always be you.’ He wasn’t trying to persuade Trowa anymore. Trowa didn’t believe him, anymore._

_‘You'll be happy,’ Trowa whispered._

_He didn’t believe that, really._

_‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, the most useless thing that had ever left his mouth, the most unforgivable._

 

**

 

In the morning, he prays. First to save Trowa. Then just for it to be painless. In the end, just for the strength to not show his own fear. His prayer rug warms in the sunlight while he kneels on it.

Sleepily, from the bed, Trowa says, ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it is, Quatre.’

Quatre sits back on his heels. He's facing away from Trowa, as it happens. Mecca is over that lake, over the continent, somewhere far away. It’s hard to feel it all the way out in the colonies. For some reason, it’s harder here.

‘You're not supposed to interrupt,’ he chides.

‘Sorry.’ Trowa shifts around. The quilt goes slithering to the floor. ‘Shutting up now.’

His knees creak, getting up. He fetches the quilt as he goes back to their bed, spreads it over them. Trowa sips from the open champagne bottle, grimaces. ‘There’s juice,’ Quatre tells him, and tucks against Trowa’s chest.

Trowa slides his fingers through Quatre's hair. ‘It'll be easier for both of us if we keep up the pretence.’

He doesn’t believe that. But he doesn’t protest it, yet, either. He doesn’t want to waste their time with arguments.

Trowa kisses his temple. ‘Got pictures?’

‘Of what.’

‘Your kids.’

‘Yes. Yeah, of course.’ He opens the end-table drawer, where they stashed their wallets. He takes out the tatty plastic sleeve of pictures for Trowa. ‘Olivia just had school pictures taken. She won't smile for anything.’

‘Smart girl.’ Trowa tilts them into the light from the porch. ‘She’s pretty. Looks like you.’

‘She's embarrassed of her teeth. Poor thing. Her mother said something. Neither of them will tell me what.’

‘Marina was always a bitch.’

Quatre looks at him sidelong. ‘They're getting married in a month, you know.’

‘Saw it in the papers. Good old boy Philip Schenckman. Think he knows what he’s getting into?’

‘They seem suited to each other. All the relatives are scandalised. White is one thing, but Jewish?’

‘Does it bother you? The marriage, not the Jewish.’

‘Are you kidding? I'm just thrilled to be done with alimony.’

‘Amazing she'd give it up.’ Trowa turns to the photograph of the twins at their birthday picnic. A startled, tiny grin crosses his face.

‘She knows she's already got the bulk of it.’

‘Are you broke?’ Trowa asks. He traces a line down Quatre’s arm with the edge of the picture sleeve.

‘Broke compared to before, probably. Rich-people-broke. There were pre-nups on both sides.’

‘Handling it?’

‘We're all right. I was thinking of moving to a smaller place.’

‘Away from the harpies?’

Meaning his sisters. That was old enmity. It had been pretty well earned. ‘They'd be happy to have the estate,’ he says.

‘Let them. You never fit in that house.’

‘That's because it's a soulless pit.’

‘Move into mine.’

He knows what he's asking. Quatre doesn’t, not immediately, not in the frozen seconds after. He has the pictures of his children in his hand. Trowa’s home. Without Trowa.

‘Or not,’ Trowa says lightly.

‘Thank you.’

‘Quat, look. I didn't mean to piss you off.’

He sits up to look at Trowa. ‘You didn't. I've never in my life been angry at you.’

"You've got a long fuse then"

He touches Trowa's face. He can't stop doing it. Trowa lets him, and kisses his palm.

‘Are you angry?’ Quatre asks him softly.

‘Nah.’

‘At all of this.’

‘No point in that, is there? It won't change anything.’

No point in asking— why didn’t you call me. No point in asking if he would have, before the end. Trowa always did have a kind of death-wish. He always left the questions to Quatre.

‘I’d say let’s fuck again,’ Trowa says then.

He shakes his head with a smile. ‘What did you really want to do today?’

‘I'm easy.’ Trowa sits up against the headboard and looks out the porch window. ‘How private is this beach?’

‘The renter's not even here.’ There are a few other cottages nearby, but they’d all looked empty yesterday.

‘Skinny-dipping then.’

Quatre smiles. It grows to a grin. ‘All right.’

Trowa laughs. ‘You've gotten dirty in your old age,’ he says slyly.

‘Oh, enjoy it.’

‘I intend to drink it dry, baby.’ Just a shadow of Trowa's old bad-boy charm in that. Quatre loves it. He always has.

They’re already naked, and there’s something bold and liberating in just walking that way out onto the porch. He genuinely hopes the other buildings are empty, and that he’d been far enough ahead of the reporters who often dogged his trips to Earth. Trowa had tended to be less shy than Quatre, inclined to enjoy the sun on his skin when Quatre could only think of prying eyes. He tries not to let on that he’s even thinking of such things. Trowa tests the outdoor shower, pulls Quatre under the spray with him. There’s a shelf of prettily wrapped soaps and gels. Trowa experiments until he finds one he likes, one that smells like papaya and summer. They take turns washing each other’s hair. He forgets himself and gets a mouthful of suds trying to kiss Trowa’s neck. Once they’re clean, they’re in no hurry to get to the lake. The shower water is cool, but not cold, and however brave they’re planning on being, the shower is hidden by a wooden wall, and the privacy is permission for intimate touching, deep soap-tasting kisses. He’s half hard when Trowa cups him close by both ass cheeks and rubs, but Trowa’s not, and he’s afraid to push it. So he breaks away, and tilts his head suggestively at the lake.

‘Race you,’ Trowa says, and goes streaking toward it.

He has a picture of his mother at an unnamed beach. It was sandwiched between a book that had sat on his father’s desk for as long as Quatre could remember. His father had always claimed to have never left the colonies, so Quatre doesn’t know who took the picture, but it still reminds him of movie stars, elegant old-fashioned movie stars. Her blonde hair is long and curling down her back. Her legs and feet are bare under a yellow sundress. She’s not smiling, but there’s something about her shy, slightly embarrassed pose that makes him think she had a ready laugh. He keeps it framed in his office, now. He wants a picture of Trowa running for the water to stand next to it, and for a moment his eyes water. There’ll be no pictures. There’ll be just faulty memory, fading with every year, all the more precious because there will be no new ones to replace it.

He can’t do this.

Trowa dives through a wave and comes up sluicing water. ‘You change your mind?’ he calls. ‘Chicken.’

He forces a smile. ‘Just bracing myself.’

It’s too cold to stay in long, but they make games of splashing and wave-hopping, acting like the teenagers they haven’t been in a long time. They really are alone, completely alone on the beach. They float on their backs with the sun bright on their faces. There are clouds developing over in the east, but rain won’t come until the afternoon, maybe, and for now everything is perfect.

‘Ever make love in the water?’

‘Isn’t that how you get viruses and things?’ Quatre retorts. A wave sloshes over his belly. Trowa’s hand finds his bobbing on the surface.

‘That’s peeing in the water.’ Trowa tugs him to his feet in the chest-high water, pulls him close. ‘You’re getting a paunch.’

‘I am not!’

Trowa pokes his belly under the water and licks his jaw. ‘Pudge.’

‘It is not.’ He laughs, and Trowa tickles him, or tries to. ‘There may be slightly more of me than there used to be.’

A high wave brings Trowa off his feet, and they sink a bit before they settle, clinging to each other. ‘It’s a good thing. You were such a skinny white boy.’

‘You ought to talk.’ The wet darkens Trowa’s thin hair, plasters it to his head. He almost looks all right. ‘Wearing your jeans too tight on that bony ass.’

‘Made you look, anyway.’

‘From the first moment.’ He can float, if he lifts his feet up a bit. ‘You still should have called. But I’m glad Wufei did.’

Trowa looks away. ‘I didn't want... anything sticky.’

‘Yes, you did. It's all right to want to know that people care.’

‘I knew it already.’

He digs his toes into the mushy sand bottom. He hadn’t known. Trowa might even have been sick the last time they’d seen each other. Not a lie. Just not the truth. That was their relationship.

‘Just let it run its course, Quatre.’

He scrubs his face, smoothes his wet hair back. ‘I'm angry,’ he says.

‘Okay.’ Trowa’s face is grave, his chin touching the water. His arms are pale reflections under the waves as he paddles slowly. ‘Get it out of your system then. I'm listening.’

Not the right word, angry. In pain. His hand on Trowa's is gripping tightly. ‘I don't know what I'm to do without you always being there.’

‘Live life.’ Quatre’s eyes fill, and he tries to hide it. ‘You'll be okay, Quat.’

He kisses Trowa's hand. Trowa returns it, and nips his middle finger. ‘Careful,’ he whispers. ‘We're perilously close to that sticky thing I wanted to avoid.’

He swallows it back with intense effort. He manages a reasonably dignified nod.

‘So, yeah.’ Trowa exhales. ‘We're all good now. Yeah?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Be mad if you need to. But it'll pass.’ Trowa stands. ‘Let's fuck around. See if we can work off a little of those extra calories you’re carrying.’

‘Absolutely.’ He stands, too. ‘On shore, if you please. I don’t want viruses or sand anywhere unnatural.’

Trowa follows him this time, wading onto shore and heading back for their bungalow. From behind Trowa slides his hands around Quatre’s waist, then takes his hand. Quatre turns to hold it in both of his, and swings it gently. ‘I love you,’ Quatre whispers.

They’re in sight of the bed when Trowa suddenly changes his mind.

With a casualness that’s entirely fake, Trowa says, ‘I think I need to be getting back.’

‘Go back where?’ He’s startled. ‘Your house?’

‘Yeah.’ Trowa bends to pick up his clothes from the day before.

‘For what?’

‘Left the kettle on.’

He pulls the shirt out of Trowa’s hand. ‘What are you talking about?’

Trowa cups Quatre's face between his hands. ‘This is tearing you up.’

He tilts his head back, then shakes it. ‘If you want to go home, fine, but I'm going with you.’

‘It's been so fucking good.’ Trowa’s eyes are desperate, even if his voice is flat. ‘Let's just walk away while it is.’

‘How can you even tell me you want that?’

‘Because I love you, too, Quatre.’

He's almost in tears, just holding it back by a thread of ingrained habit. ‘I love you, too. I'm not walking away from you again.’

‘You know, everything's just fucking changed. Beautiful. I didn't care. It was all just peachy that I was going to die from this, but then you had to show up and say that. Be that. Something to live for. I don’t fucking need this.’

‘All my life I’ve put you second to doing the right thing. Now you and the right thing are the same thing and I’m still too late, all I’ve got with you are these few days and you can’t send me away, you can’t say it’s all over now, Trowa, you can’t—‘

‘Okay.’ Trowa breaks into his panic by gripping him by the shoulders, then embracing him hard. ‘Okay. Relax. I won't make you.’

‘No.’ He wipes his face with a hand that shakes. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s your choice.’ His bag is on the floor, the Qur’an still atop it. He shoves it hard to the bottom under his clothes. Trowa stops him from dressing by taking him from behind. He circles his arms around Quatre, his cheek to Quatre’s neck.

‘Turn around,’ Trowa whispers.

He can’t bear to. ‘This is the-- last-- you have to do what's right for you, not what's right for me.’

‘I am.’ Trowa sighs. His cheek is wet. ‘I want this,’ he whispers, a choked whisper Quatre can feel in every part of his body. ‘Every bit of it. I've been skating along my whole life. Easy. I never gave a shit about anything before you. And after you. Maybe it's okay that it's hard for a while.’ A fresh spill of hot tears against Quatre’s skin. ‘Maybe that means I'm alive for once.’

Quatre rubs his eyes of the sting. He wipes Trowa’s, too, facing him, and settles Trowa’s head to his shoulder again.

‘Let's have this,’ Trowa murmurs. ‘This is all we have.’

‘I love you.’ He splays his hand through Trowa’s hair. ‘I love you.’

‘I know.’ Trowa pulls back to kiss him, first on the mouth, then the temple, a tender touch of his lips. ‘Me too you.’

They stand in silence holding each other. Control is hard to regain, now that they’ve admitted everything. The fear is so immediate. So is the hurt.

It’s Quatre, one more time, who eases them apart. He rubs Trowa’s hands with his thumbs. ‘Well-- if neither of us is going anywhere, at least we don't have to get dressed.’

Trowa cracks a smile in a streaked and pale face. ‘You know what that means.’

Quatre smiles too, reluctantly. ‘I’m rather afraid I do.’

‘Naked pizza.’

He makes himself laugh. They both need it. ‘Sounds about right.’

‘Then sex. Lots.’

‘Right.’

‘No anchovies. When you call.’

He takes the hint and finds the phone on the kitchen counter. The courtesy book lists local take-aways. There’s a number of pizza places. Trowa goes flopping to the futon, staring out the window. He seems tired suddenly, drained of all his strength. Quatre gives him a little privacy, pretending he has to go out front to find a stronger signal. He wraps a towel around his waist and steps out the door.

‘Hello,’ he says, when the pizzeria answers his ring. ‘I’d like to order two larges. One vegetarian, one meat supreme. Yes. We’re at the Windgrove Parks cottages, number two-oh-three. Thank you.’

He has the phone in his hand. Trowa’s inside. He thinks about it, calling one of the others. But he doesn’t know what he would say. A progress report? They all know how this is going to end.

He goes back inside.

When he sits on the futon, Trowa traces the line of the quadriceps on the Quatre's thigh, up to his hip, then back down to his knee. ‘You still run?’ he asks idly.

‘On the treadmill.’

‘You should do it outside more.’ He tweaks Quatre by the nipple, startling him into a laugh. ‘Shirtless. Give the neighbourhood a thrill.’

‘I don't have a neighbourhood,’ he retorts. ‘I have sisters. I sincerely hope none of them are looking.’

‘Fuck 'em. They need to pull the stick out of their collective asses.’

‘It's a very old and very long-accustomed stick.’

‘Time for a change, then. Right?’

He honestly can't imagine that there won't be incredible change soon. Trowa will be dead. The air will disappear. The colonies will fall from orbit.

‘Right,’ he agrees, voiceless.

‘So that's the new regimen.’ Trowa seems determined to ignore the grim undertone. ‘And naked weight-lifting.’

Trowa’s relationship with nudity had always been a treasured affair. Quatre smiles. ‘I'll do my best.’

‘I know you will.’ He taps Quatre’s hand. ‘Marina will fucking have kittens. I wanna be a fly on that wall.’

‘Marina's a busybody cow.’ She wasn’t always, but there’s no law that you have to say nice things about your ex-wife when you’re with the man who knows better than anyone why you married her. ‘She wants the twins to go to boarding,’ he admits suddenly. ‘Fuck her.’

‘Don't let her, okay?’

‘They're my twins. I'm never letting go.’

‘Might be good if you cut the cord around their eighteenth birthday, but yeah.’ Trowa winds his fingers over Quatre’s, then grips. ‘They're yours. And you don't need any help bringing them up. You're a good dad. The best.’

He knows what Trowa’s doing— giving him permission. Maybe it’s just a gesture, or maybe it’s real. No. It’s real. Trowa wouldn’t lie, not now, not about this.

He feels like a widower suddenly. He feels like his father. He really understands the man, suddenly, at thirty-six years old. Finally understands why his father was so devastated, losing the love of his life. Numbed by it. Walking away from Trowa was nothing like this.

When the knock at the door comes, he lets Trowa answer it, shamelessly nude and smug at the delivery boy’s stuttering surprise. He struts a bit coming back in with the boxes, and deposits them on the coffee table in front of the futon. ‘Naked pizza,’ he announces proudly.

Quatre grins. ‘We can have the lube for dessert.’

‘I’m in the mood for strawberry this time, I think.’

He laughs. Trowa throws himself to the cushion and props his feet in Quatre’s lap, digging his long toes into the towel until he pushes it aside enough to reach Quatre’s lap. ‘You order meat?’

Quatre rolls his eyes at the double-entendre, delivered as obviously as possible. He opens the boxes on Trowa’s legs, a handy horizontal shelf, and pulls a slice of the meat supreme out for Trowa. ‘Naked pizza.’

Trowa’s hand trembles, reaching for it. They both notice. They both pretend they didn’t, but Quatre’s chest goes tight.

They eat quietly. Trowa’s appetite seems to have left him; he picks bits from the pizza but leaves the bread, and doesn’t go back for a second slice. Quatre doesn’t eat much more. His nerves are too wound, and he feels a growing depression hovering around him. After a quarter-hour of silence, Quatre drops the remains of his slice into the box and moves them back to the table. He shifts Trowa’s legs, and lays down to put his head in Trowa’s lap.

Trowa slips his fingers through Quatre's hair, petting, arranging and rearranging, smoothing gently. ‘We can go to bed.’

He stands, hand out. ‘Let's, then.’

Trowa’s feet drag the few steps back to the bed. He lays flat, and tucks Quatre to his chest again. Quatre wraps his arm around him, stroking.

‘It's not okay,’ Trowa says eventually. ‘Leaving you. I hate the idea. And I'm pretty sure you hate it too. But the last two days have been the best I can remember spending.’ His hand travels Quatre’s back to his hair. ‘I'm happy, Quatre. Because of you.’

His eyes fill. He can’t help it. He leaves a soft kiss on Trowa’s lips, and Trowa holds him. He can finally, honestly, say, ‘I'm glad I was here. I'm grateful.’

Trowa presses his forehead to Quatre’s. ‘Me, too.’

He manages to douse the tears swiftly. He wipes his face; Trowa helps him. Then Trowa’s head falls back to the pillow, and his eyes close and stay closed. His arms tighten around Quatre.

‘I love you,’ Quatre whispers.

He sees Trowa’s throat move with a swallow. The skin around his lips is turning blue. ‘I'll love you forever,’ he mouths, without any voice left.

It's enough.

It has to be. They’re out of time. He was dreading it, and it’s here. He knows, gut-deep. He rests his head on Trowa’s chest, over his heart, and doesn’t listen for the exact moment when it stops.

 

**

 

He lies with Trowa for an hour before he moves.

There’s calls to make, at last. He calls for services first, and the renter, to explain. He calls Wufei last, when he can say it without— when he can say it right.

He covers Trowa’s body with the bedsheet, first. But then he changes his mind, and very, very carefully, moves him to face Mecca, not because Trowa would have wanted it, but because it looks more right to him, like he's done some one last thing for him. And he wets a clean flannel in the bath and washes him, his hands first, his feet. It helps, in some obscure way. There’s a kind of comfort in it.

He’s dressed and ready when the services finally arrive. He’s not surprised that Wufei is right behind them, though he hadn’t told him where they were. He’s hit a place where he can be outwardly calm, and inwardly numb. He stands in the door while they unload a gurney from the van, and Wufei comes trudging across the sandy yard.

‘Hey,’ Wufei says.

Quatre twitches his lips. ‘Hey.’

Wufei is serious, unhappy. He says, ‘Everything under control here?’ as if to spare them both from saying anything else.

But the words don't seem right to Quatre. He changes them to, ‘It's taken care of.’ He touches Wufei’s arm and steps aside for the gurney. ‘Things have been taken care of.’

‘Yes.’ Wufei doesn’t make a move to go into the bungalow, though the cloud cover is over their heads now, black and glowering heavily. ‘He knew you would.’

There’s a wet spatter on the step, and then on his hand. He was wrong about the rain.

‘Need a ride home?’

‘Thank you, but I drove here. I shouldn't leave the rental.’

‘They'll send someone to pick it up. It'll cost you an arm and a leg.’ Wufei’s shrug is sharp, a jerk of his shoulders.

He's not really sure if he'd rather be alone at the moment. ‘I need to go back to his house anyway,’ he defers, in the end. ‘There's a lot of planning to do.’ A funeral. Finding that will, first, to see if Trowa wanted anything particular. He imagines not. Informing everyone who ought to know. Someone will have to take charge of all of that, and he’s reluctant to let anyone step in ahead of him. It’s his place.

And Wufei seems to know that. All he asks is, ‘Need help?’

‘I'll let you know,’ he answers politely. ‘Thank you.’

They’re back with the gurney, then. Wufei tries to keep him occupied, but he does see; and he's still raw enough that he has to look away, and his eyes sting, and then spill over. He closes his eyes.

Wufei puts his hand on Quatre's arm, then stuffs them into his pockets. He clears his throat.

‘It was always you,’ he says gruffly. ‘Drove me nuts. It doesn't any more.’

That’s obtuse. Quatre blinks his eyes clear. ‘I don't understand.’

‘Neither did I.’ Wufei’s stare is a thousand miles long, as the rain finally starts, pelting them with chill drops. The services are loading the gurney into the van. ‘I'm glad you were here at the end, though. He didn’t want me there. You did it better than I would've.’

That penetrates, at last. He’d never known Wufei and Trowa were— together. He’d never known a lot, it seemed. He licks his lips. Then, bereft of any other response, just nods.

‘So,’ Wufei says. The doors of the van close. One of the services comes toward him holding a clipboard and forms. ‘Call me. If you need anything.’

‘I will.’ This time, he means it. ‘Or… perhaps you’ll come with me? We’ll get your car on the way back.’

Wufei accepts that stiffly. ‘Thank you.’

 

**

 

_Turning to global events, we are sad to report that Trowa Barton, one of the five Gundam Pilots, passed away on Thursday this week._

_Little is known about the Gundam Pilots other than their identities, which became public in the wake of the Eve War in 198. Trowa Barton was the only Pilot who may have been born on Earth, where he lived after the signing of the Treaty of Sanq. A source within Preventers, speaking on the condition of anonymity, told BRN News that Barton was given a medical discharge after learning he had a terminal cancer. But it was paparazzi who broke this story, discovering that mining mogul Quatre Winner, also a Gundam Pilot, suddenly appeared in Seattle in Barton’s company. Gossip magazines published these pictures of the two friends travelling to a private beach, along with allegations that the recently divorced Winner and openly homosexual Barton were engaged in a love affair._

_The funeral was attended only by close friends, but supporters turned out in surprising number to express their grief. A small offering of flowers and candles grew at the gates of the cemetery into large and loyal crowd. Though the Pilots have always been controversial figures, today we are all united in mourning the passing of a man whose role in history is unique and irreplaceable._

 

**

 

‘I’m going to go back to the house and make sure everything’s ready for the wake,’ Quatre tells Duo quietly. People are already dispersing, not wanting to linger at the gravesite.

‘You want any help?’

‘It should be all right. Just need space for all the food.’ Duo sees it first, and Quatre follows his stare. There are people at the border fence, a large crowd of people, and something stacked up against the rungs of the fence, almost waist-high. ‘What is that?’

‘I’ll find out,’ Duo says. He comes back a minute later with the director, who apologises several times.

‘They’re technically not on our grounds past the gate,’ she explains. ‘We can’t ask them to leave.’

‘What are they here for?’

‘I think it’s a vigil, sir.’

‘A vigil.’ He’s stunned. ‘Those are flowers?’

‘And cards. I spoke to one of the early arrivals. There’s going to be a candlelight prayer service tonight.’ She opens her portfolio and removes a few slips of folded paper. ‘I collected some, in case you wanted them.’

There are cards. A few store-bought, a few hand-written. One is even marked by tears, the paper warped where they fell. They all say, Trowa, we love you. We love the Gundam Pilots.

‘God,’ Duo says. ‘Would you look at that.’

‘How long have they been there?’ Quatre asks the director. ‘How did they know?’

‘The evening news ran a piece,’ she explains. ‘Some of them have been here since last night.’

‘Someone’s going to have to pick all that shit up.’ Duo’s eyes are wide, though. It lacks his usual cheerful venom.

His feet move before he tells them to. They see him coming, but there’s no wild calls, no frantic shouting, the way people react sometimes when he’s out in public. They all just fall silent, in a wave going back from the fence. When he comes to a stop there, no-one is speaking at all. Their solemn faces gaze back at him.

He crouches to reach through the rungs. There’s a bouquet of yellow carnations in reach, a little wilted, crushed from the weight of other gifts piled on top. He’s attended Christian funerals before, and these remind him of that, the smell of them too strong, too sweet. They’re just starting to die.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘All of you. For coming. For doing this.’

‘Mr Winner.’ It’s a reporter, of all things, emboldened by Quatre’s appearance. He pushes through the crowd as close as he can get through the flowers and holds out a microphone. ‘Mr Winner, any comments?’

It puts him on the spot. The reporter knows it. And a few in the crowd grumble, unhappy with the stunt.

He stands. The microphone follows him. ‘I just wanted to say thank you,’ he repeats. He has to clear his throat. ‘To everyone who came here. He would have appreciated it. Sometimes we forget that-- that it wasn’t just us fighting.’

‘In the war?’ the reporter prompts.

‘In the war.’ The faces looking back at him blur into a pale streak. He blinks, but they don’t resolve.

There’s another hand reaching through the fence. A little girl. A white flower. Rose.

‘Thank you,’ he says again. He doesn’t have much voice left now. He takes the rose carefully. ‘That’s a pretty dress,’ he says inanely.

‘We supported the Gundams!’ a woman calls out. The mother, maybe. Others take that up, an impromptu chant, spreading back as others behind catch on. The reporter is enraptured, directing his cameraman to do a full revolution, catch all of it on tape.

‘Thank you,’ he says one more time, knowing no-one will hear him. ‘Thank you all.’ The chant follows him away from the fence as he leaves quickly.

Wufei is watching him, tight-lipped. In his white linen suit he stands out from all the others in black mourning. Wufei will always be obstinately Chinese.

Quatre offers him the bouquet, when he realises he brought it with him. ‘There’s a crowd,’ he says.

Wufei takes it as if it’s some foreign, unrecognisable object. ‘I don't know how to do that,’ he says. He turns the bouquet in his hands, the cellophane wrapper crinkling from the pressure of his fingers. ‘Talk to people.’ He holds it out to Quatre. ‘I don't want this.’

Even as he understands, he tries to persuade Wufei. ‘They brought them for Trowa. I just... thought--’

‘They brought them for Trowa,’ Wufei repeats, but the emphasis is completely different when he says it. ‘You can keep it if you want it.’

He takes it. Petals shed in the transfer. He bows his head over it, cradled in the crook of his arm as if it were a child. He wishes Wufei didn’t deserve some time to be a little difficult. Wishes he didn’t want to hit him for it.

‘They always cared when we bled,’ he says.

‘Not always.’ Wufei’s face is stiff. His eyes flick to the fence, and back to Quatre. ‘But he deserves this. I'm glad of it.’

‘That's all I said to them. That we were grateful.’

Wufei nods. He catches a petal as it separates from the stem and falls. Take it, Quatre urges silently. He subtly inclines the bouquet toward Wufei, hoping he’ll change his mind.

‘In an hour it will be over,’ is all Wufei says. His hands fall to his side, crushing the petal out of sight.

‘There's still the wake.’ He’s reluctant to remind him. All through the service Wufei had acted as if he were holding on by a thread of composure. Wufei’s expression clouds. ‘But I can take care of it, if you’d rather go home.’

He looks at Quatre sharply then. ‘I can handle it.’

Wrong again. ‘I didn't mean to imply you couldn't,’ he replies quietly. He knows he's not going to make Wufei his friend right now.

Wufei might be thinking the same thing. There’s a familiar belligerence in his stance. But they’re not in privacy for an explosion. Their friends are all gathered nearby, and there’s all those people beyond the gate. The video camera. Who knew but that the reporter’s microphone was capturing their every word.

‘I gave his last days to you,’ Wufei whispers tightly. ‘That doesn't give you the right to all of it.’

He would have preferred the explosion, on consideration. He feels like he’s been stabbed again.

The silence goes on forever. He’s holding the flowers so hard he’s crushing them. There’s blood on his palm from his own fingernails. He wipes it on his trouser leg without half knowing what he’s doing.

‘I apologise,’ Wufei mumbles, somewhere beyond Quatre’s view of their shoes. ‘That was uncalled for.’

There’s no way in hell he can find his voice after that. He doesn’t try.

Duo’s there, then. Too late to play chaperon, if that’s his intention. He puts a hand on both of them. ‘I'll drive you back,’ he offers. Commands, into the thick silence between them. ‘I've been jonesing to try out my new handicap brake on a few unwilling passengers.’

‘Take Quatre,’ Wufei says. ‘I'll find a ride with Heero.’

 

**

 

He’d made the offer before the funeral— now it seems the grossest of gestures, inviting a man to stay in a house that rightfully ought to have been his, if it was going to be anybody’s. The sting of their not-quite-argument at the cemetery lingers all through the wake, but Wufei makes small attempts at showing it’s— not forgiven, but temporarily, at least, forgotten in the interest of presenting a united front. He’s good with the guests, talks to everyone as Quatre does, even when they start, inevitably, to talk about Trowa. Or maybe he likes that part. It’s a natural thing, after a funeral. People want to share their stories. Quatre even hears a few new ones. There’s a lot of Trowa’s life he wasn’t part of.

But he’s not Wufei, and as the afternoon drags, he takes to hiding in the kitchen pretending to look for decaffeinated coffee. All the food started out in there, and he finds things to occupy his hands, things that don’t require thinking and remembering and nodding in all the right places and laughing on cue. He puts lids on Tupperware and shuffles things in the refrigerator, stirs a pot of chilli simmering on the stove and wondering who brings chilli to a wake.

‘Quatre?’ It’s Heero. ‘We ran out of the green jello thing with marshmallows. Is there any more?’

‘Ah, I think there’s a red jello thing with pineapple.’ He finds it and crumples the foil cover. ‘Should do.’

Their hands brush as he hands it over. Everyone is touching everyone else, even people like Heero, who avoids it all other times. Part of Quatre is grateful. Part of him wants to hide in the bath and wash his hands in boiling water until he can’t feel them anymore.

Heero stands there hesitating for so long Quatre feels obliged to smile at him. ‘Anything else low out there?’

‘Oh,’ Heero says. ‘The vegetarian macaroni.’

‘People always bring the worst food to these things.’ The only macaroni left has canned tuna in it. Quatre isn’t sure who brought it, but he’s not about to put it out where people might accidentally eat it. ‘There’s a broccoli chicken casserole,’ he decides. ‘I was saving it for later. Wufei likes broccoli.’

‘Is he staying?’

‘I hope so.’

He spends half an hour hinting that everyone might be ready to leave around eight, and another half hour seeing everyone out the door. There are lingering hugs; Une, of all people, even cries a bit as she leaves. Four different people leave him cards for psychologists in the colonies, and Sally gives him a number to give to Wufei. Quatre smiles until the muscles of his face hurt and thanks them all with the utmost sincerity, and when they’re gone he bins the cards and scoops the tuna macaroni over them.

Duo and Heero stay to help them clean. They wash the dishes and hoover in the living and dining rooms. They stand in the kitchen drinking the decaf Quatre finally finds.

‘I’m off,’ Duo says finally. ‘My hip is killing me.’

‘You need me to drive you home?’ Heero asks him.

‘Maybe.’ It’s as close to an admission Duo will make. ‘I miss my old prosthetic,’ he confesses. ‘Advancement in technology, my ass. I’ll pick up my car tomorrow.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ Wufei says.

It’s only ten o’clock. It’s the longest day of his life.

He’s dozing at the kitchen table when Wufei comes back in. He doesn’t hear the other man enter. It’s the noise of the utensils drawer that jolts him awake. Wufei sets a plate in front of him. A cold cheese sandwich.

‘You didn’t eat much earlier,’ Wufei says.

‘Neither did you.’ Quatre sits straight and takes a bite under careful watch. He’s heard that food is supposed to taste like ashes when you’re grieving. He wonders if he’s abnormal, thinking it’s good. ‘No jello?’

‘Jello should be banned.’ Wufei eases down in the chair cater-corner to Quatre. ‘It doesn't qualify as food anyway. Who brought that shit?’

‘At least four separate people.’ He offers half the sandwich. Wufei accepts it, but doesn’t eat. He picks the crust from the bread and lets it fall to the napkin.

‘They're not our friends.’

‘I know Jello is disgusting, but that's still a harsh reaction.’

‘It was sarcasm.’ Wufei actually smiles. It’s a little thing, but it’s real, as far as Quatre can see. ‘You can never tell. Trowa always thought that was funny.’

‘He would have.’ That almost doesn’t hurt. He rinses his dish and can’t find a space for it on the over-stuffed drying rack. He imagines throwing it through the window. He dries it by hand, and puts it back in the cupboard.

‘You need to sleep,’ Wufei says.

He’s been trying to avoid that idea. He knows when he goes to bed all he’ll do is think. Or dream. He doesn’t know which will be worse. He’s not eager to find out. ‘Sit with me a while.’

‘Of course.’ Wufei gets a bottle of water from the refrigerator. This time he sits opposite Quatre.

So he reaches across the table and covers Wufei’s hand. Just lightly. Wufei allows it. Maybe he’s sorry; maybe he’s just exhausted, too. But after a moment, Wufei’s hand turns up, and his fingers close around Quatre’s.

‘When you moving in?’ he asks.

‘I don't know if that's a tempting illusion or a tempting possibility.’ It’s like looking at clear water as the stone hits. The reflection shatters. ‘I can't relocate my children that easily.’ Well, he could the twins, they're young enough. But Olivia is rooted in L4. She’ll fight him. She’ll hate him. Without even mentioning the divorce. The job. It isn’t remotely feasible to run his company outside the colonies. Is it?

‘Don't be in a hurry to sell. Okay?’

‘That I do promise.’

‘I can keep care of it while you're away. If you want.’

Quatre looks up. Had Trowa ever even offered it to Wufei? There is so much he is never going to know about them. ‘I would appreciate that very much,’ he says quietly.

‘He wanted you to have an out,’ Wufei says. Awkwardly. They’re not accustomed to this kind of personal conversation, even if the subject weren’t a man they’d shared imperfectly. ‘In case it got too heavy for you with your family.’

Quatre exhales shakily. ‘I know. He always expected it to go down in flames. It didn't help that he was always right.’

‘He was wrong not to fight to keep you.’

He's tired enough that he tears up again. He turns his face away, unwilling to shame them both.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No. You've every right.’

‘We never lived together. If that matters.’

He wins back his control with an effort that puts a tremble into his fingers. ‘If there'd been time, you would have. You were very compatible.’

Wufei’s lips press flat. Even now he sits straight-backed, his shoulders uncompromising and level. His hand cuts through the air, a negative slash. ‘It's nice of you to say so.’

‘You shouldn't act like a guest in your own relationship.’ And it’s Quatre with no right to say that, but he does. It’s important to acknowledge it, to confront it, while the freshness of their loss can still repair the damage they’ve done to each other by proxy.

Wufei breaks first, and looks away. ‘I was. I agreed to it. I knew.’

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what Wufei might want from him, if anything. Maybe nothing. Maybe just to be okay.

That will take longer than one night, and they both know that.

‘There’s the guest rooms,’ he says at last. ‘I could make up the couch. Or if you don't mind it, you're welcome to share the bed.’

Wufei colours a bit. ‘Whatever you're comfortable with.’

He wants Wufei in the room, if only so he’ll be able to sleep. Alone in that bed is a state he isn’t sure he can survive, emotionally. But Wufei might be so uncomfortable that he wouldn’t sleep, and he doesn’t want that, either.

‘We slept together often enough during the war,’ Wufei says, decisively.

‘Yes.’

‘This isn't much different.’

It is, but. Quatre accepts it with a nod. ‘If you'd like to use the lavatory first...’

‘Go ahead.’

He washes his face in the sink and brushes his teeth. He exchanges his suit for his own nightclothes, though he thinks about wearing Trowa’s when he looks at the hamper. That’s just odd, he tells himself, and isn’t sure what he’s thinking anyway, wanting to wear a man’s dirty laundry. He’s hit a light-headed state that’s half-wired and verging on hallucination. There’s a bathrobe hanging from a hook on the back of the door. He touches the robe, he’s pressing his cheek to it. He can tell by the smell that Trowa wore it.

He puts it on over his pyjamas.

Wufei is in the bedroom when he emerges, hovering near the bed as if afraid to lie down first. He’s wearing Trowa’s clothing, too, a pair of drawstring bottoms still creased from the bureau. Still creased from the package— there’s plastic wrapping in the bin, and a price tag.

‘I wonder why he kept those,’ Quatre says. ‘Certainly he never actually wore them.’

‘You bought them.’ Wufei ventures a step toward Quatre. His fingers pluck at the sleeve of the robe. His palm smoothes over the sleeve. Then he takes another step, and lays his head on Quatre’s shoulder.

Quatre rubs Wufei’s hair gently, the way he always did with Trowa. It’s instinctive, but deliberate. Wufei’s hand on his elbow tightens. Quatre’s throat is sore from the tension, from refusing all day to cry any more. He holds Wufei, cradles him close, and they breathe together.

Wufei started it, and Wufei decides when to step back. ‘It's all right?’

‘It's okay.’ He hasn’t a clue even what Wufei means, but it is. It’s all right. The numbness has become a kind of peace.

‘Time to sleep,’ Wufei says.

They turn down the sheet together. ‘Which side?’ Quatre asks delicately.

‘The left.’ It’s an automatic answer, only slightly defencive. ‘If that's okay.’

‘It's fine.’ He crosses to the right and climbs the bed. It’s not til he’s lying down that he wonders if this was Trowa’s side, or if Wufei hurried to claim that for himself. He turns off the lamp on his side. Wufei lies beside him, a warmth a few inches away. Turns off the other light and turns his back to Quatre.

Quatre stares up at the ceiling for a long time. He finally brings the edge of the robe up over his nose. He closes his eyes, and drifts away.


End file.
